


Boggarts (And How to Defeat Them)

by SeptemberEndings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boggarts, Could be read as preslash, Gen, M/M, Sherlock cares about John a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeptemberEndings/pseuds/SeptemberEndings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thought himself fearless.<br/>Obviously, he was wrong.<br/>(Or, the one where Sherlock loves John a bit too much to be a machine about something like this.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boggarts (And How to Defeat Them)

**Author's Note:**

> This is reposted from my old account on fanfiction.net, but I cleaned it up a bit. I'm afraid it's not the best thing ever written, but I was pretty proud of it so I wanted to see if I could work on it a bit more. So yeah, if you read something like this somewhere and you can't put your finger on it, I'm sure that's what it is. Or, that people have very similar ideas!

Boggarts.

Sherlock had never thought of them much. He knew the textbook definition of them (of course he did; it was ALWAYS important to protect oneself, as he'd learnt early on in life). After Professor Lupin announced that they were to be doing a lesson on them next period, of course he had decided to read up and lectured John on them.

Sherlock fancied himself fearless; of course he'd had the occasional bout of nerves when it came to a situation, but he'd never really, truly felt terror.

So he wasn't really worried when the Boggart lesson rolled around. He was sure that it would be something just a bit distressing, like finding his brother dead or not being able to solve a mystery.

It didn't mean that deep, deep down in his heart, he was just a bit worried of what he might find.

* * *

 

Professor Lupin smiled grimly at the class as they filed in that day.

After lecturing them about the boggarts and how to fight them, Sherlock felt a small thrill of excitement after Lupin opened the cupboard. Beside him, John flinched and grabbed Sherlock's arm almost subconsciously. "Sherlock," he muttered breathlessly, "aren't you just a bit frightened?"

Sherlock slipped on his trademark smirk. "John, it is but an illusion. How could you possibly be scared of it?"

"You are  _such_ a help sometimes," John forced out through gritted teeth. Sherlock let the remark roll off of him, knowing that John's sarcasm was only a result of his nerves.

Sherlock really didn't see the big deal about it all.

Sherlock watched passively as the third year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs walked up to face their deepest fear. Some were stupid; a giant towering tree? Really? Do better than that, Donovan—and some were just a tad dark, such as Irene Adler's fear of her father. Still, Sherlock remained unimpressed, and when his name was called out, he marched up confidently. Perhaps it would just be Mycroft finally going on a diet, he thought mockingly.

The boggart morphed immediately from a huge cockroach (really Anderson?) to…a shortish, well-built thirteen year old with a round face and salt-and-pepper hair.

"John?" Sherlock said, for once actually, truly confused. John smirked—a facial expression that hardly fit John Watson at all. It looked alien and wrong on that made-to-be-innocent face.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, his lip curling. His voice sounded wily and nasally, a bit like Jim Moriarty's—a second year Slytherin whom Sherlock disliked from the start. "Such an apathetic, heartless know-it-all—why did I ever waste my time on you?" he sneered. "You're pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Worthy of death."

His expression changed abruptly. It was now slathered with bitter, terrible glee, much like Voldemort's when he had made a kill. It was very disconcerting to see it worn so perfectly on his best friend's face.

Sherlock felt a pang of something—it felt painful, but worse, as if someone had torn out his insides and twisted them into a giant knot. Sherlock fell to his knees without even realizing his actions.

John's black grin grew wider. "Death. You should die. You should die by my hand—or better yet, watch the only person you've ever cared about die."

Sherlock couldn't think. He couldn't think, couldn't speak—he was out of words. Sherlock Holmes was speechless. He felt something wet congeal in his eyes and drip down his face. Drip drip drip. Down these tears, borne out of pure terror, fell. He watched through blinded eyes as John pulled out a silver dagger from beneath his robes. The sharp edge gleamed in the candlelight.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "Please. Don't...don't do this.  _Please._ "

He laughed, a sound callous and steely and not at all like John was supposed to sound. The dagger lifted up in the air, its polished silver as beautiful as the full night sky.

A roar erupted from the back of the class. John Watson, third-year Hufflepuff, careened forward out of the silent class and grabbed Sherlock. "Sherlock," he pleaded.

"Sherlock," the Boggart mimicked in a falsetto tone.

John paid no heed. "Sherlock it isn't real—Sherlock listen to me, goddammit. It isn't real. I will NEVER leave you. Never. Goddammit, you ass, just do the spell already. You know it isn't me. You know that I will never, ever do this."

Sherlock shook his head. His face was still plastered with salty tears

He pointed his wand upwards. "R-r-riddikulus," he said.

The Boggart-John Watson disappeared.

But the real one didn't. John never disappeared. John never left. And Sherlock knew that he wouldn't ever.


End file.
